


Victoria's Secret

by captorvatiing



Series: Bropsee for the Soul [4]
Category: Homestuck
Genre: Alternate Universe - Domestic, Established Relationship, Fluff without Plot, Interspecies Relationship(s), M/M, Non-Sexual Intimacy, Non-Sexual Kink, Pale Porn, Post-Sburb/Sgrub, mild xeno
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-07
Updated: 2015-06-07
Packaged: 2018-04-03 08:03:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,087
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4093321
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/captorvatiing/pseuds/captorvatiing
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Krk-krt-krrr” roughly translates from Alternian to English as “Put that fucking camera down and get over here before I ram it right up your nasty bung hole.” </p><p>Bro has a surprise for Psii. A really suspicious surprise in a glittery pink bag. This fic does NOT contain any sexual content or implied sexual content despite the set up. It's probably not what you think.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Victoria's Secret

In all honesty someone should have intervened in this living situation a long time ago. Rosa tried like, that one time, you think. You’re pretty sure. She must have known you were lying through your teeth when you told her that you and Dirk were totally on top of everything at least.

She didn’t do anything about it though, she just sort of patted your arm and told you she’d be downstairs if you needed her.

You frown at the laundry hamper and hold your towel with one hand as you gingerly pick the soggy carcass of a milk carton out from under the top layer and hold it between your claws. How it got there is a mystery that you hope you never, ever solve but you know it must have been there a while because everything in the hamper is completely soaked through and smells faintly of something sour and completely vile. You suppose if you dug through enough layers you’d find something that wasn’t wet, but that would mean mining into the depths to scrounge up something that’s probably been in there for a good couple of weeks or so and at that point putting it back on your body sort of defeats the point of taking a shower in the first place. 

The hamper smell is slowly creeping out from where you opened it and making your skin crawl so you just sort of… drop the garbage back in it and replace the lid.

Someone will probably clean it up later.

Probably. 

(Actually you know for a fact that Dave is more fastidious about tidying than you and Dirk manage to be put together, and that’s not taking into account that Dirk often spends his more manic hours rearranging the flat as though the clutter has personally offended him, so what you mean is that sooner or later someone will find it who isn’t in a depressive state and isn’t you, and they will clean it up.)

(You are the terrible roommate, it is you.)

You abandon the hamper to the cleaning fairies and venture out into the flat in just your towel - a risky maneuver. The list of people who deserve to be subjected to you naked is incredibly short, even with your stubborn hatred for almost everyone. You’re not that cruel. That’s the kind of shit that gets a guy done for war crimes and you would know, you committed more than a few war crimes in your previous lifetime but flashing your tits to innocent civilians is where you draw the line. The room seems empty enough though and you’re relatively confident that you’re going to be able to sneak through the living area unnoticed. Hopefully Dirk has some shorts left at the back of his closet that no one bothered to put away. Maybe he’ll even have clean ones. You’re half way to safety when a wolf whistle cuts through the ambient tech noise that passes for your version of silence. Like a goddamn whip crack you spin round, putting the intruder in front of you and your back to the wall. ( _No one needs to see that,_ you tell yourself over and over again). 

It’s Dirk. Of course it is. He’s got a Victoria’s Secret bag in one hand. 

“What the hell?” Seems like an appropriate response. 

“Don’t worry babe. I brought something for you too.” He says, setting the bag down on the counter.

“How is that not exactly what I should be worrying about?” You cautiously approach, your towel gripped tight around your waist, and try to peer in. The boxes tell you nothing. A small part of your brain that hates you particularly violently reminds you that whatever is in those boxes is now the only item of clean clothing left in the house. “What is it?” 

He just smirks at you as he hands the largest one over. It’s much heavier than you expected it to be.

“Suspicious.”

“Shut up and open it.”

You peel back the tissue paper and… Blink. This is not lingerie of a concupiscent nature. 

Unfolding in your hands is the cutest set of pajamas you’ve ever seen. The material is like hopbeast wool, featherlight and so soft to the touch that you can’t stop yourself running your hands over it again and again like it’s something fragile. The top is huge, about as broad as Dirk rather than you at the shoulders but just fitted enough that it should catch on your scrawny hips and bunch up around your waist. Pulled down it would probably reach halfway to your knees and you’d easily get away with wearing just that but the aim of the game here is comfort and knowing you’re not a fan of showing skin Dirk is at least benevolent enough to get the matching set so folded underneath the jumper is a pair of loose fitted grey leggings. 

The top has “ANGEL” written across it in pink glitter. Nobody's perfect.

He’s watching you with that blank face he reserves for when he’s waiting for a reaction and he hasn’t decided if he’s going to tap out and cry irony or see the plan through to it’s sincere end. His shades are pushed up and his hat pulled down and you can see the tension in his fingers where he’s resisting the urge to tap them on the counter.

“You want _me_ to wear this.” You say evenly.

He nods.

“This is something from a porn.” You say. 

He nods again, the barest hint of a grin pulling at the corner of his mouth.

“A _troll_ porn.” You clarify.

Since this whole, hive buddies slash maybe matesprits slash human boyfriends slash convenient pale bandaid arrangement started neither of you have bothered to try and hash things out into any kind of socially acceptable relationship box. Maybe you should have, but you’re enjoying yourselves and if you poke at it too hard you’re worried it will break. You know he gets worked up over the whole interspecies thing (you really wish you hadn’t looked at his work, there is not enough mind bleach in the world) and you know he’s been trying incredibly hard to pull out all the intercultural stops and treat you to things that a palemate would, winding you down when you need it and making sure you get enough sleep. Things that Signless would have done for you without batting an eye. It’s a form of quadrant smearing you’re very familiar with.

This though, this is something else.

“Is there a human context to this that I’m missing or did you actually just hand me some highly X-rated conciliatory lingerie and smirk at me like you want to throw me over your shoulder and slam dunk me in a pile?” 

His smirk twitches. “You don’t like it?”

“I didn’t say that.”

There’s an awkward silence for a few beats and you can’t stop stroking the top. You’re very, painfully aware that this conversation is occurring with your ass out. 

But look, there’s a set of incredibly warm, fluffy clean clothes right here.

You bite your cheek.

“Humans don’t have conciliatory quadrants,” you say for perhaps the billionth time. “What do you get out of this?”

“Hon, you’re seriously underestimating how cute those jim jams are gonna be on you. Just cause we don’t go all gooey at the knees over designating a single dude as a snuggle buddy for life doesn’t mean I can’t appreciate good eyeful of stone cold adorable. Please note the human store name on the bag.” Oh please, as if Victoria hasn’t embraced the opportunity to market her secrets in four different colours. “This is a one hundred and two percent bonafide pale-rail imitation, troll-flavoured come on, no tricks.” He holds his hands up in surrender. “So do you want a horn rub or not?” 

Hah, wow. You feel the heat creep up to the tips of your ears and light up your chest on the way. Now he’s grinning in earnest. Fucker. You chew on that spot on the inside of your cheek until he reaches forwards and gently hooks your mouth open with a finger to get you to stop.

As it stands your options are, one, refuse to entertain his weird intercultural fetish and spend your evening eating cereal in, if you’re lucky, someone else's dirty clothes or, if you’re not, a fetching toga made out of towels. Or two, put on some indulgently soft pale lingerie and let him get his kicks attempting to pap you through the floor. 

You start backing up to the bathroom with the box in your arms.

“Make a pile.” You say, and then, leaning round the door at the last second, “And no smuppets!” 

He says something that sounds suspiciously like “awh” and maybe “bullshit” as you shut yourself in and start getting dressed. 

The more you put on the more exposed your feel. The mirror stares at you critically as you tug the half sleeves down just past your bony elbows. With your arms crossed awkwardly across your chest and the points of your teeth digging into your bottom lip you look like the worlds ugliest pale pin up girl. It’s like a centerfold for assholes who are only pitiable in all the wrong ways. When you step out into the other room you say as much.

“I look like the worlds ugliest pin up girl.” 

He clearly disagrees. He’s grinning at you from where he’s perched deliberately casually against the counter, you see something catch the light behind his back when he moves. There’s a pile in the middle of the room consisting of what looks like every cushion and snuggle plane in the apartment snarled with wires and a few of your squishier game grubs. It’s _perfect_. You suck on your lower lip and rub your hands up your arm as though the shiver was from the cold.

“I’m too old for this.” You insist as he carefully unhooks one of your hands from your elbow and leads you to the pile. He doesn’t shove you, just insistently presses forwards until you’re laid out across it with your knees drawn up and your thumb claw between your teeth. “You cannot possibly expect me to believe you’re getting off on this.”

Then you see what it was the reflected the light. The camera clicks before you can react and he must get at least two photos of you curled nervously on the pile like it’s paletube amateur hour before you manage to get your pan together and snatch it out of his hands. 

“Dirk!!” 

“Sorry.” No he’s not. “I just want one. No, two. Before and after shots. I’m not gonna post them anywhere or share them with anyone, not a single soul will get their peep on these photos that you don’t want to, scout's honor.”

You grumble and pull the loose collar of your shirt up over your face as you set the camera down out of reach.

“Do you want me to delete them?” He says.

It is only because you trust that he would do it in a heartbeat if you asked him to that you say, “No, shut up and get in the pile.” 

He shuts up and gets in the pile, hauling his shirt off over his head as he goes and dropping his hat on top of it. (He keeps the shades on though, maybe he’s more flustered than you thought.) After a few seconds of fidgeting he has you laying in his lap, your shoulders pillowed against his crotch and the tips of your horns just barely scratching his bare chest. From here there’s not a lot you can do to cover yourself up, you’re spread out in front of him and completely defenseless. The thought makes you cross your arms a little tighter and curl up, your knee coming up to your chest only for Dirk to drop a hand on it and slowly push it back down until your leg is straight. A warning grumble bubbles up in your chest and to your great surprise he firmly plants his hand on the top of your head and shooshes you. To your even greater surprise you are shooshed. The grumble dies off as he slides his hands into your hair, still damp and curly from your shower, and starts to smooth his fingertips methodically over your whole scalp, carefully avoiding the the bases of your horns, until the skin starts to tingle. 

He’s researched this, you realise as he starts firmly circling his thumbs against the sensitive inch or so of skin that separates your smaller horns from your larger ones. This is not the clumsy, exploratory horn jobs of the past, this is a carefully targeted attack on all the tension your hold in your shoulders and the nagging ache at the back of your skull. He rubs up the long curve of your large horns with just enough pressure for you to feel the vibrations in your skull and lets his nails click against the ridges on his way back down before he carefully tightens his grip around the bases in a slow luxurious squeeze that sucks your breath away. It’s like being unwound. The static in your brain isn’t angry any more, it’s not the warning hiss of exposed electrics it’s the comforting hum of an old television in a quiet room. Bit by tentative bit you feel your mind and your muscles relaxing.

You wonder what you did to make him realise you needed this, then promptly file that thought away in the “nobody gives a fuck” zone. Maybe he really is just doing this because he wants too. Maybe you actually are a creature worthy of affection and pity and not a problem that people around you have to solve. Maybe you’re not a fucking burden, did you ever think of that, brain? Yeah. Didn’t think so.

One of his hands moves down to stroke along the soft shell of your ear and it twitches under his fingers. He huffs the quietest laugh and you whine, nudging your head into his other hand like a needy purrbeast until he goes back to massaging the bases of your horns on that side while his other hand traces a careful trail from the back of your ear to the prominent dip of your collar.

His hands wander, softly tracing the angles of your bones and sliding flat palmed as far down your chest as he can reach without gouging himself on your horns, bunching up the soft fabric of your shirt until your hip bones peek out. There are callouses on his fingers from sewing and strifing and they should be uncomfortable but when he presses them into your forehead and rubs long, confident lines down between your brows and along the sensitive edges of your cheekbones they feel incredible. Somewhere above you he rumbles something that sounds like a question, or feels like a question. When you don’t answer he taps a finger against your cheekbone and leans over to ask again.

“Mmrn?” 

“I said how’re you feelin’?” 

You open your mouth to answer him in English and find your voice completely mangled by a deep chested purr your didn’t realise you were making, or capable of making for that matter. He quirks an eyebrow and you give up, reaching a hand up to pat clumsily at the side of his face and answer him in a series of alien chirps and clicks that you’re not sure are actually synonymous with any human words. He narrows his eyes at you just a tad. When did he take his shades off? 

“And here’s me worried this was gonna be shit ‘cause I’m lacking your alien biology.” He says, apparently having decided that was a good sign. He doubles over to kiss you on the mouth and you chirr. “Jesus Christ. Those better be good noises.”

You nod and stroke his stupid human face with its stupid human lack of pale sweet spots. He lifts your shoulders and moves his legs like he’s going to leave you there and a tiny jolt of panic shoots through you. He can’t just leave you here, not now that he’s so effectively shut down all of your faculties. You weakly bare your teeth and dig your claws into his scalp to hold him down.

“Ow.” He deadpans. “If I try to get up are you gonna bite me?” 

You grin dopily and nod again. 

“Alright noted.” He says. “But I gotta piss something fierce and I spent way too much money those pajamas to give ‘em such a tragic end.” 

Despite bitching continuously the entire time you do actually let him move, drifting in and out of focus in the warm patch he left in the pile. When he comes back you’re curled a little sideways with your neck cricked back so that you can crack an eye open at him. He’s smiling, like, actually genuinely smiling at you as though he doesn’t know you’re looking and it suits him. Usually he holds himself pretty tightly wound, he pretends that he doesn’t but you get your hands on him regularly enough to feel how stiff he is under that easy persona. It’s nice to see him relaxed. Weird, but nice. You give him a little chittery trill, calling him back to the pile and his eyes widen and you see the lump of his adam's apple bob. Ehehe, the alien noises really do get to him, what a weirdo. Not that you’re going to complain.

You close your eyes, your whole body shifting with a heavy sigh and you only open them again when you hear the clicking. He winks at you from behind the camera and takes one more shot. 

“Krk-krt-krrr” roughly translates from Alternian to English as “Put that fucking camera down and get over here before I ram it right up your nasty bung hole.” 

As soon as he’s back in the pile he drags your weight back over him, tucking your head against his chest and scritching his short nails absent mindedly through your hair. You huff and tug at his gross mammalian chest hair and he grunts.

Through the warmfuzzynice fog of the thoroughly papped you feel the stirring of Actual Feelings, the kind that you are eventually going to have to Deal with with a capital D. 

Not right now though. Not right now.

**Author's Note:**

> bonus [drabble](http://dumbledorkus.tumblr.com/post/121113607360/also-42-with-bropsii) and [bonus](http://dumbledorkus.tumblr.com/post/126939115225/he-huffs-the-quietest-laugh-and-you-whine-nudging) [art](http://dogslug.tumblr.com/post/125732108095/trying-to-do-at-least-one-small-doodle-a-day-and) 8)


End file.
